by Jessie Keane
Celia came and sat down at the table.
‘So what you going to do now you’re all better?’ she asked.
Ah. So now she was going to be put back out on to the streets. Dolly wasn’t that surprised, not really. Celia had been good, keeping her here for so long. She couldn’t expect it to last forever.
Dolly opened her mouth to speak, but Celia said: ‘Of course you can stay here if you want. You’re very welcome, I’m sure. And you needn’t worry. I run a respectable household. I won’t allow anyone under sixteen to get fucked in it.’
Dolly didn’t know what to say. She was floored – not for the first time – by Celia’s weird mix of no-bullshit earthiness and pristine elegance.
‘You can help out around the place, if you’d like to. Clean up, you know. Earn a bit of pin money that way, how about that?’
Dolly swallowed hard. She was touched. No one in her own family had ever been so kind to her as Celia was.
‘I’d like to stay, and help out,’ she said.
Celia tucked a fag into the ivory holder. She lit it, then gave Dolly a squinting grin through the smoke. ‘Bloody good show,’ she said. ‘Let’s drink to it.’
37
London, June 1994
Annie was down the cop shop first thing Thursday morning, pushing her way through the sorry remnants of the night before: the drinkers, the prossies, the dazed druggies. When she got to the counter, she asked for Hunter.
‘He’s not in,’ said the sergeant behind the desk, swatting away a drunken man’s hand from his pen and pad. Wafts of unwashed flesh, vomit and hard liquor were coming off the man in great crashing waves.
‘Will he be in soon then?’ Annie was trying to hold her breath and talk at the same time.
The sergeant shrugged. A woman passed by Annie. She was plain as a pikestaff, with scraped-back honey-brown hair, no make-up, a mouth as thin and hard as a steel clamp. She wore a cheap-looking navy suit made for comfort, not elegance. The sergeant lifted the flap in the counter for the woman and she was just about to go through it when Annie stopped her with a hand on her arm.
‘DS Duggan?’ she said. It was Hunter’s sidekick, Annie knew it. She remembered her from when it had all blown up with Rufus Delaney.
‘Something I can help you with?’ asked DS Duggan, drawing to one side, well away from the stinking drunk. The desk sergeant sighed and dropped the flap.
‘I’m looking for DCI Hunter.’
‘He’s out.’
‘I know. But you’ll do,’ said Annie.
‘In what way?’
‘In the way that you can tell me how it’s going with the investigation into the death of my friend.’
Sandra Duggan’s thin lips drew into a straight line. ‘You’re talking about a police investigation, Mrs Carter. We don’t discuss such things with members of the general public, I’m afraid. If we have questions to ask you, we’ll be in touch.’
‘No.’ Annie was shaking her head. ‘You see, I have questions for you. I want to know if you’ve got anyone for this yet. Any suspects. Anything.’
Duggan stared steadily at Annie. ‘I think we just covered that,’ she said, and went to turn away, toward the desk.
‘Whoa.’ Annie caught her arm again.
‘Take your hand off me,’ said Duggan.
Annie did. Her hand lingered on the fabric. First impressions had been right. Those threads were cheap and nasty.
‘Look. Any information would be welcome,’ said Annie, lowering her voice so that none of the other people in the front office could hear her. ‘It would be received confidentially, of course. No questions asked and nothing ever said about it. And there would be payment.’
The thin mouth opened in a soundless O of surprise. Then a small laugh escaped Duggan as she stared at Annie.
‘Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?’ she asked.
Annie stared back, hard-eyed. ‘Perish the thought,’ she said.
‘Only if you are, I have to say that’s a very serious matter.’
Annie nodded slowly. ‘Understood,’ she said. Well, it had been worth a try.
‘If there’s nothing else . . . ?’
‘No. Nothing at all.’
Annie walked out of the cop shop and into a dazzling sunny morning. For the moment, she was at a loss. Jackie – hopefully – was on the case, doing what she wanted. Hunter was off doing something, she didn’t know what. Maybe things were moving, but it didn’t feel like it. She wished he’d get his finger out of his arse and do something positive about finding Dolly’s killer, before she went shrieking mad with frustration.
And it was then, right then, that she saw a familiar and very welcome sight. A face she knew. A friend.
38
A bulky man was getting out of a sleek black Jag and crossing the road to go into a newsagent’s a few doors down. The bald gleaming head, bronzed from some foreign holiday, the twinkling set of gold crucifixes, one in each huge cauliflower ear, the immaculate suit pulling tight over eighteen stones’ worth of solid muscle. Annie was a woman spotting a life raft in a stormy sea.
‘Tony! Tone!’ she yelled out, smiling suddenly because she had never seen a prettier sight than this big ugly bastard.
It was Tony – first Max’s driver, then hers, then Dolly’s. He’d been her greatest supporter through many a battle. He turned his head and she waved madly. People were looking, staring, and Tony stared too. He paused mid-stride and then she saw the change come over him. His face hardened. And then – to her shock – he turned back, away from her, and kept walking.
‘What the fuck . . . ?’ she said angrily. She wasn’t about to let this go.
Annie ran after him and followed him into the newsagent’s. Inside the tiny shop a tired-looking man in a flat cap was dispensing the day’s news to his punters. When Annie caught up with Tony, she grabbed his arm.
‘Tone? Didn’t you see me?’
But she knew he had. Of course he had. He had seen her, and chosen not to. It gave her the creeps. All right, she hadn’t expected flags and banners from Gary, but Chris? Ellie? Steve? And now even Tone, who had been the one to phone her, the one who had told her all this was going down?
They know, they all know, and Max, where’s Max right now, who’s he with, what’s he doing, and oh God, does he know too . . . ?
She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself, but she had a real case of the jitters. The way he was looking at her – Tone, her old mate, who’d stood in her corner on more than one tricky occasion, who’d always backed her to the hilt.
‘Mrs C,’ he said, with a cool nod of the head. At the same time, he was rootling in his pocket for change, looking at the headlines about Labour winning sixty-two seats in the election and still looking for a party leader after John Smith’s untimely death. In the running for leader was Margaret Beckett, John Prescott and someone called Tony Blair. Tony kept his focus on the news, showing her no interest.
‘Tone, what’s going on?’
Tony was silent.
‘Come on, say something, even if it’s only bollocks!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, his eyes avoiding hers. He paid at the till, tucked the paper under his arm, left the shop. Annie trailed behind him. She was having to half-run to keep up with his long stride. He was walking back to the Jag. Finally she grabbed his arm again. Tony halted. Looked at her. Seemed to look straight through her.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Annie echoed, half-laughing although it wasn’t funny, not in the least. ‘Is that all you’ve got? For fuck’s sake! Dolly has been shot, and you act like you don’t care.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Tone. ‘Of course I bloody care.’
‘Good! Then will you please stop walking away from me?’
‘I got nothing to say to you.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Annie raised her fists to her head and was actually wrenching at her hair with her hands, she was so e
xasperated. ‘Dolly is dead, Tone. And you were her driver, her minder, you were supposed to look out for her, and what the fuck were you doing? Were you off somewhere having a wank? Because it’s pretty clear you weren’t doing your job!’
That did get a reaction. Tony’s brows drew together and he looked thunderous.
‘Look,’ he said sharply. ‘I drove her last Thursday afternoon, up West. She wanted to go shopping, that’s what she always did on a Thursday afternoon if she wasn’t meeting Ellie Brown at the Ritz. I dropped her back at the Palermo at about four, and she went into the club and I went home. When I went to check in with her Friday lunchtime, she was bloody dead. More than that I can’t tell you. I wish to God it hadn’t happened, and if I find whoever did it before Old Bill does then they’re up to their mangy arses in trouble and there won’t be no nice civilized trial or a cosy cell to lie in, they’ll be fucking gone, you got me?’
Annie was silent; their eyes were locked. Tony swallowed hard, then looked away.
‘I liked Dolly,’ he said. ‘You know that. To think of some scummy bastard doing that, it makes me sick to my stomach.’
‘And that’s all you know?’ asked Annie quietly.
‘It’s all I know.’
‘I need help, Tone. I want to find out who did this and I want to deal with it in our way. You’re right – no cosy cells, no trial. Only justice. Our sort of justice. Will you help me do that?’
Say yes, she thought. He would say yes, he had to say yes.
‘No,’ said Tony, and turned away from her.
Annie caught his arm again. Tony paused, looked back at her face. Annie released him, her shoulders sagging. ‘Do you know what happened to Jackie?’ she asked.
‘What?’ He looked at her blankly.
‘Jackie Tulliver. He used to be sharp as a razor, now he’s drowning himself in the bottle day and night. What happened?’
Tony shrugged. ‘His mum died,’ he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked over to the Jag. He didn’t look back; not once.
Yeah, he knows, she thought. They all do.
39
Annie stood there staring after him. Something bad was happening here, something terrible. She longed for Max, for a friendly face, for things to be as they used to be, when she was treated with respect, when all the boys knew that she was Mrs Carter, and you had to tread softly around her, or else. Now, she was nothing but shit on their shoes, and she didn’t like that feeling at all.
‘There you are,’ said Jackie, wandering up to her, a fat cigar clamped between his yellow teeth. Annie almost groaned. This was all she had to work with. This wreck. He was staggering a little, and his hands were shaking. He was unshaven, unwashed. As usual.
‘Yeah,’ sighed Annie. So his mum had passed on. Was that really an excuse for this? ‘Here I am.’
‘I’ve talked to our people in the Bill, they don’t know nothing. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Right.’
Jackie coughed. Looked at her.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘A little dosh up front would be good,’ he said, his eyes straying to the off-licence over the road. ‘Got a couple of contacts you might want to speak to. Might be worth your while.’
Ah, what the hell.
Annie handed over a tenner and off he went, weaving through the traffic, people honking their horns at him but Jackie taking no notice, intent as a bloodhound on the trail. She followed him slowly, her mind on Dolly, on Tony, on the whole flaming awful mess this was turning out to be, and as she did so a cyclist came past her, skidding to a halt, almost hitting her.
‘Christ!’ she yelped. ‘Watch what you’re doing, will you?’
And then he stuffed a piece of paper into her hand, and sped away.
Annie stood there, looking at the piece of paper.
Ah shit. No, no, no. Not now. Please, not now.
She stepped back on to the pavement and unfurled it. Numbers. Not many. She stood there and slowly she deciphered the code. It said: Come at once.
Annie screwed the note up, the pizzino, and flung it to the ground where it was quickly trampled underfoot.
I can’t, she thought. Not right now. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
And once again she stepped into the road and followed Jackie Tulliver, the useless drunk – and also the only hope she had.
Night was closing in on them as they went to the address of one of Jackie’s ‘contacts’. The rain was swooshing down and the wipers were working overtime in the taxi. On the way, they passed the Palermo and Annie stared out at it. Earlier in the day, she’d passed it and the police tapes had been up, an officer had been there standing guard on the door. Now . . .
‘Stop! Stop the damned car, will you?’ she said.
‘What the . . . ?’ asked Jackie, who’d been half-dozing, almost ready to sleep off his latest boozing session. Now he snapped awake and stared at her as the cab driver pulled in to the kerb.
Annie slapped payment into the driver’s hand and was out of the car like a long dog. She ran over to the Palermo and stood there, staring.
The police tapes were gone. There was no officer on the door. Instead, there was a white van parked outside and men were bringing out boxes of stuff. Annie saw clothes she recognized, a pink fluffy cushion perched on top of one of the bulging boxes. It fell to the pavement, soaking up wet dirt and grime. Someone bent, snatched it back up, stuffed it back in the box.
‘Holy shit,’ said Annie under her breath, and hurried inside.
40
‘What’s going on?’ bleated Jackie. ‘I thought you wanted—’
Annie wasn’t even listening. She shot off inside the club, blundering past the removals men, almost running past Pete the barman, and then she hared across the club floor and up the stairs, nearly knocking over another bloke coming down with another full box of Dolly’s belongings. She barged into the flat and stared around in disbelief.
They’d stripped it. The rug with Dolly’s blood on it was gone, and all her little ornaments. Everything. From the bedroom next door she could hear men laughing, a radio playing Whitney Houston, who was blasting out ‘One Moment in Time’ as they disassembled Dolly’s bed, cleaned out her bedroom, trampled on her memory.
In the middle of the sitting room stood Caroline, Gary’s latest squeeze. She saw Annie there and her mouth formed a cat’s-bum pout of dislike.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ demanded Annie.
‘What does it look like?’
Annie felt like she’d had a gutful. She barrelled forward and grabbed the front of Caroline’s dress. Caroline let out a squawk of surprise. Annie’s eyes bored into hers from inches away.
‘It looks like you’re taking the piss,’ said Annie. ‘That’s what it looks like. This is Dolly’s home, you silly tart.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘You heard. Would you jump into her grave this fast, you cow?’
‘You’d better let go of me,’ said Caroline, writhing against Annie’s grip as Jackie walked into the room.
‘Hey! Ladies, no need to get rough now . . .’ he started, waving his hands around. It was the most animated Annie had seen him since she got back, and that angered her all the more, that he was defending this stupid bint who thought she could swan in here and turn Dolly’s memory to ashes in the blink of an eye.
‘Shut your trap, Jackie,’ Annie shot back at him over her shoulder. She gave Caroline a shake. ‘And you! Explain yourself.’
‘Explain what?’ spat out Caroline. ‘Gary said I was going to take over here, and that’s what I’m damned well doing, OK? I’m just cleaning out all this old crap.’
‘Old crap?’ Annie’s eyes glinted with rage. ‘You cheeky little pisser! This is Dolly’s place.’
‘This was her place,’ corrected Caroline. ‘The Bill have said they’ve got all they need in here, and we can clear it out. I’ve got the decorators coming in tomorrow, got to get shot of all this fucking pink tat first.’
Suddenly the rage drained out of Annie like someone had released a valve. Dolly was dead, and actually? This bitch was right. Things were moving on. But to think of this prancing little clown in here running the show, riding roughshod over all that Dolly had so painstakingly built up, it stuck in her gullet to even think of that. But what could she do? Precisely nothing.
‘You say Gary gave you the word on this?’ asked Annie coldly.
‘Damned right. And he got his orders straight from your old man.’
‘What?’ Annie stared at her. ‘Max has been in touch with Gary? Since Dolly got shot? When?’
‘Couple of damned days ago. Gary filled him in on what happened, and asked if I could step in. Mr Carter said yes. You going to let go of this dress? You’re creasing the fabric.’
‘I’ll crease your fucking fabric in a minute,’ snapped Annie. ‘You never heard of the word “respect”? Dolly’s only just cold, and you’re in here already. It’s not right.’
‘It is right, your damned husband says it’s OK and he owns the place. So what the hell you’re beefing about, I really don’t know. Take it up with him.’
I wish I damned well could, thought Annie. Her head was reeling. Max had phoned Gary, and if that was the case maybe he’d also called the Prospect villa. She’d check that when she got back to the hotel. With a disdainful flick of the wrist she released Caroline, who staggered back a pace.
‘You’re fucking berserk, you are,’ said Caroline, brushing down the front of her dress. ‘Gary always said you were, and he’s right. Having marriage troubles, he said. You and Mr Carter. And meeting you? I’m not surprised.’
Marriage troubles? Since when had Max and her been having marriage troubles? This was the first she’d heard of it.
Jesus, Max, what’s going on with you? Where the hell are you?
‘Life goes on, you know,’ said Caroline, brushing past her and past Jackie, and going to the door of the flat.
‘Yeah.’ Annie turned and gave Jackie a bleak look. ‘Just not for Dolly.’